Post by Dagvald Riddik on Feb 5, 2020 12:09:41 GMT -5
Chapter One
July, 2019
Beowulf’s claws clack against the concrete floor of the compound. He pitter patters over to the hand that feeds him and proceeds to lick it vigorously. His master stirs from a deep slumber. He’s been trying to sleep off the immense physical beating he received in Cape Town for the past couple days since returning to his hideout outside Altoona. He had planned on getting additional medical assistance upon return to the states, but decided against it in the interest of maintaining a low profile.
Instead, he has wallowed in the pain of battle and subdued it with copious amounts of homebrewed alcohol. Feeling the sloppy licks of his loyal hound on his hand, Dag stirs from deep slumber and raises his head off the pillow it rests on. The small movement drives him to severe disorientation and dizziness. The comforting smile of his good dog does lighten him up a bit, though. He hunkers down to the floor, barks excitedly, and hops to the side, hinting to Dag of his intentions.
“Hungry?” Of course, Beowulf loses it, snapping at empty air and scampering to his food bowl. Dag manages to begrudgingly climb out of bed and stagger towards the cupboard. He grabs the sun-dried wild vegetables and hardened turkey skin off the shelf and turns around, barely able to steady himself as Beowulf’s huge frame jumps on and puts both his paws on his master’s chest. How long has it been? Maybe he overslept, by a couple days. Beowulf flops to the ground in front of his bowl, allowing Dag to bend down and pour in the organic food.
He crouches to one knee when he realizes it would be an effort in itself just to continue standing and walk back to the bed without a brief rest. He pets his hunter, and speaks to him, “In the days of old, you would be a legend, just as your namesake. You are an impressive beast, Beowulf. I could see you catching the scent of a great evil lurking in Asgard, and vowing to the All Father that you shall not eat until you feast on the bones of the lurking intruder. Despite your ravening hunger, I know you would seek out your prey to the ends of the world and back again until you have fulfilled your mission.” Beowulf keeps eating.
Dag looks to his right, spying the infernal cellphone he has to hold onto now for RSW purposes. It’s sitting, tossed carelessly, on the wooden table. He hobbles over to it, leaving Beowulf to hunt the frost giants. Propping himself on against the edge of the wood, he picks the phone up with his better arm. In his contacts list, out of the half dozen names filling his miniscule list, he selects the only man who can help him right now. An old friend, an old intellectual wall off of which he frequently bounced ideas to see what stuck. The dial tone buzzes, and he thinks back to all those years ago.
Dag met Ødelagte Kjeder in the prison work out room while serving his arson sentence. He was the leader of the white nationalist gang, and quickly welcomed Dag into his tutelage. Their hatred for the so-called invaders drew them together like frost to the peaks of Norway’s highest mountains. They often discussed how to reclaim their homeland from the Hebrew desert cult, expel the foreigners and return to the ways of yore. They did disagree on some major tenets of the future of society, however, but this only ever made for some interesting, if lightly heated debates at the time. Ødelagte always knew his pyromaniac friend had a legendary future ahead of him, though he couldn’t be sure whether he would play a hero or a villain to his own cause. Out of curiosity, they maintained infrequent communication via snail mail, but in this case Dag needed some quick advice.
The ringing stopped and a voice answered in true Norwegian. High pitched, grovely, unpleasant. “This is Ødelagte, if that’s who you want, state your name, if not, hang up.”
The Legacy Champion clears his throat and replies in Norwegian, realizing he hasn’t used his native tongue in quite a bit too long. “Ødelagte, it’s good I caught you, this is Dagvald Riddik. How are you, my friend?”
The voice of a rat squeaks out laughter from the surprise of this reunion over the airwaves. “Daggy boy, brother Riddik, old friend! It’s been months since our last letter, and you surprise me like this, delightful! Really delightful. Now, I know you never did like technology, so what carries such urgency that you would override your own disdain for modernity and contact me via phone line?”
Beowulf, having finished his meal, trots over to his master and gets his head stroked in return. Dag answers, “Well, things have gotten a bit crazy since we last spoke. I do still view technology as a poison, but I’ve had to make sacrifices. I have a fake ID and passport because I need to travel now, for example.”
Ødelagte cuts in with a greasy “Ah yeah? Travel where, eh?”
Uncertain how to answer, the beastmaster says in response, “Wherever I am needed. Let me get this all out, because it’s a long story.” Dag quickly but thoroughly explains the situation he’s found himself in. His victories, his championship, his chosen-one aura all arouse periodical sighs of intrigue from the neo-nazi. “A couple weeks from now, I will be defending my championship against a very well established wrestler who proclaims himself a soothsayer. I was nearly beaten to death in my last fight, as I said. Therefore, I was hoping you could help me get back into that mode of brutality I enjoyed while in prison.”
“Ahh, why didn’t you simply say so, brother? Of course, of course I will train you just like the old days in the concrete cells and prison yard, when we busted the heads of sand crawlers and camel fuckers into fertilizer for the grass! When’s a good time for me to come over?” The former gang leader excitedly chirps into the phone.
Dag is surprised by this. “Come over? You mean come to where I live and work with me?”
“Of course!”
“Are you serious? I didn’t mean for you to come over, I figured we would discuss our old strategies, how things have changed. How to get back in the mindset we shared in that brutal cage. How can I ask you to come over on such short notice?”
“Well, if you really don’t want to see an old friend, you may simply state such, brother Riddik,” the madman joked. “Daggy boy, it’s no issue, you see, I’ve moved to the states myself!”
Dag is very surprised to hear this. “You did? When? To where, exactly?”
“Not long ago, just a few months,” Ødelagte replies. “I haven’t had time to tell you, I’ve been so busy. With Trump’s victory, and Islam encroaching into the motherland, I figured it was simply time. I decided to move into the belly of the beast, New York, New York! Where better to strike back and undermine the enemy of man?”
RSW’s rising star reflects on this information. “That’s not so far after all,” he says, mostly to himself. “Brother Kjeder, I think we can arrange a reunion indeed. If you have such time, and such funding, we can reminisce on the good times, and prepare for our glorious future. What say you?”
The oily creak of rusted metal known as Ødelagte’s voice infiltrates the phone line, setting the scene for the man who will soon be the first to set foot in Dag’s compound besides Dagvald himself. “It should be a pleasure, fellow Norseman. Let us plan it forthwith.” On the other end of the line, the pale, crooked face contorts itself in a vicious, bloodthirsty smirk. He can finally formally recruit his old ally into the revolution. They make plans, and the devil is invited in.
Three days later, a knocking on wood interrupts Dag’s research into his opponent. He takes a last skim of the history of Soothsayer’s accomplishments before locking his phone and heading towards the door. The sound of a visitor, even an expected one, still throws him a bit off solely because it’s the only one he’s ever had. Even, the only other human to know the location of his compound hidden in the wooded hills of central Pennsylvania, a state covered in land plots claimed and owned in name only by an under-bearing state game organization.
The door creaks open, and standing on the cold dirt ground, shrouded by the setting sun, is the Scalper of Cell Block C. Ødie grins wide and extends his arms to embrace his former skinhead gang member in a brotherly hug. “It’s great to see you again, Dagvald. Ah, just seeing you brings all those memories of the battered and brutalized brown people moaning in excruciating pain at our feet on the concrete floor of the high security ward, as the guards come flooding in to punish us for defending ourselves from those inbred savages. Those were the days!”
“Yes, yes indeed, and a longing for physical violence is what drove me to the position I’m in now. So come in, set down your bags, and I shall prepare us a fire outside and we may discuss our training tomorrow.” The visitor takes the advice and makes himself comfortable.
As the fire roars and twilight dwindles, Dag goes over his current situation. “This individual, so called Soothsayer, is my next opponent, as you know. He earned a championship opportunity by defeating several opponents in some true clusterfuck fight, the rules of which I can scarcely wrap my head around, it is so ridiculous. Either way, this a man I shall not underestimate. My previous challengers have made the same mistake, which led them to fall by my hand. I refuse to doom myself to failure in the same way.”
Ødelagte takes a sip from the generously provided home made wine given to him by Dagvald. “He proclaims himself a soothsayer. Our forebears had soothsayers, oracles, however you like. They could listen to the gods better than anyone else, save perhaps the Earl of the realm if he did not like what he was told. Who does this so-called soothsayer speak for?”
“He speaks for himself. He has no gods but his version of knowledge, it seems. His followers, the Enlightened, bow before him and live for his words. They are a subhuman hivemind driven by the ramblings of an illucid madman, constantly high off his own delusions. From what I’ve heard, his own family is in this roving band of lunatics, and they are the ones who submit themselves the most. Now, that, I mean in many ways, as he and his sister appear to have a very… intimate relationship.”
Ødelagte spits out the liquid in his mouth and bursts into a ferocious fit of coughing laughter before he can compose himself. “Pagh! Freya shall have his head! He has committed a great atrocity, and the gods shall frown upon him in his combat against a true man like yourself. What pathetic weakling cannot get the right of pleasure from any woman but his own blood sister? Has he not so much as tried and rape a low born slag? I cannot fathom-”
Dag slams his metal cup down on a tree stump beside him and waves to cut the disgusted man off from his rant. “I know, Ødelagte, I know, but that’s some seriously low hanging fruit, and it doesn’t have much impact on my fight aside. Aside from, of course, the goodwill of the All Father, god willing. What I must consider most is the ideology he preaches to those poor huddled masses he has plucked from the bottom rung of society in a vain attempt to make himself seem important. He appears to be the very scum of the Earth in that department: a socialist.”
Again, the visitor spits out his liquid and laughs some more. “Has he not the decency to at least be original? When you told me he sees himself as a visionary cult leader, I thought of a Charles Manson or Jim Jones, someone with a unique vision and criticism of the world. But should Thor’s hammer strike and proclaim I’m incorrect, a socialist cult already exists, and it’s called Liberalism! What makes him different from the politicians in this nation? How does he stand out from Elizabeth Warren or Bernie Sanders? The fool needn’t hide his cult away in some remote location, he could have meetings in the town hall and hold office!”
“Now,” Dag interjects again, “let me finish, my friend. I know it’s ludicrous, but we needn’t worry about the politics of the United States right now. My focus is Soothsayer and how he plays into the future of our movements. NeoNordicism discredits everything he says handily. As you remember, by Germanic law…”
For hours, Dag and Ødelagte discuss the merits and flaws of both NeoNordicism The Enlightened. “Daggy boy, once upon a time you bought into the same plans for the future of our people that I do now. The genocide of all non-Aryans, the restoration of the Kalmar Union and the supremacy of ultimate order of the white race. Now you speak of ancient laws and tribalism? I understand the need to overthrow Western civilization, but we cannot throw the baby out with bath water, brother. Our people need order.”
“No, of course we cannot abandon all order, but do you want to live in the same sheep mentality of the followers of Soothsayer’s desert cult? Our people did not have the need for governments or supreme authority. No government we recreate, no matter how white or traditional, will guarantee the rights of our people such as we enjoyed in the old times.”
“Rights? Ha! Don’t make me laugh…”
Before long, the conversation turns heated. Dagvald longs for a return to tribal life, abandoning technology, civilization, and a thousand years of human progress. Ødelagte wishes to unite the Scandinavian peoples into a single nation for Aryans, ruled by Aryans. Like ancient philosophers, they argue over every detail. It nearly seems things will come to blows before Dag announces the time and implores they both get some sleep. They agree to meet up again tomorrow and focus on physical rather than mental training.
Silverlight cast its shadow through the open but barred window of Dag’s compound, shattering the darkness with its reflected intensity. Clouds and birds slice through the beams, causing them to flicker wildly. Some of the fowl are preparing to awake, some are settling down after hunting all night. On the wooden ledge of the windowpane settles a raven, black feathers glimmering in the moonlight, half-dead rat squirming in its jaw. It looks in the window, head cocked, curiously poking around as birds do. It spots Dag, sleeping, scarcely visible in the pale rays. He crunches the wriggling rodent right on the neck, seizing the remaining remnants of its miserably pathetic and short life.
The nearby recently extinguished fire is still sending cinders and ashes into the air. A speck of soot floats gently down onto the bird, causing enough discomfort for it to hop off the ledge and fly away. It doesn’t pay too much attention to where it's going, mostly thinking about getting some chill night air on the warm spot on her back. As she glides in the darkness, she nearly collides with the cloaked figure standing outside Dag’s door. The raveness caws loudly, veers off its current path and tries to fly away from the potential threat.
A sudden and bright reflection glistens against the light of the moon. It flies in an arc of its own, carried forward by a long, thick object. The sharp point of the object catches itself embedded deep inside the hungry black bird of prey, slicing its dark feathers and sending her falling to the ground. The killer has become prey. The hunter yanks his hatchet out the slain bird and brandishes a large wood and metal shield, and clanks the little axe against it once, twice, thrice, before slamming it into the door of the compound. Again. Again.
The ubiquitous noise stirs Dagvald from his slumber, despite the very little sleep he has garnered since saying farewell to his visitor. Not completely sure what the noise could be but bearing the worst, especially with Beowulf’s vicious barking, he reaches under his pillow for the handgun but feels nothing. “What have I done to be cursed in such a sly way?” He mutters to himself and his gods. As another powerful bang thunders against the door in the other room, he scrambles to his closet to get his mostly for-show Viking weaponry. He finds a sword, a shield, and a chainmail style jacket to go over his nearly nude body.
As he dons his gear, the barrier to his invader finally gives in and falls to the ground. Nothing but his wits, weapons and wolfhound protect him now. Spotting Beowulf about to charge through the bedroom toward the door, he kunges and grabs him by the scruff, being met with a snappy yelp but obedient halt. “Hang on, boy. We’ll let him come to us, whoever he is.” He closes the thinner, weaker door to his bedroom and waits for the inevitable.
In moments, after little other noise which one might expect in this situation such as rummaging through seemingly high-value personal possessions, a booming strike finds his personal door. One more, and the brittle thing collapses. Standing in the portal is the unmistakable pointed and scarred face of Ødelagte Kjeder, the Scalper of Cell Block C. “Daggy boy, I hope you’re ready for your training!”
Dag is unsure how to react to this bizarre turn of events. He begins to say, “Ødelagte, what is this, some sort of sick joke?!” His last words trail off, however, and are drowned out by the leap of Beowulf towards the armored figure. Barking and growling are hushes by one efficient thrust of the metal shield at the fleshy attacker. It sends the dog crashing to the ground, yelping in anguish. Seeing this, the beastmaster’s vision goes red, and he himself lunges at his former friend. The attack hound tries to recover from the blow.
Shields meet with a crack of Thor’s hammer, and Dag barely manages to awkwardly block Ødelagte’s hatchet strikes with his sword. The assailant shouts over the clatter, “You wanted training, didn’t you? You have become weak! You are nothing like the Dag I knew!” Riddik slashes at his temporarily exposed neck, but the trainer ducks and raises his shield at the last moment. “You will either return to the savage state I know you have inside, or you will not make it to that bullshit charade for your meaningless championship!”
He swings his hatchet, but only catches Dag with the blunt end, stumbling him backwards against a set of shelves. Shaving utensils and other such accessories fall to the ground, and Dag struggles to steady himself but grabs onto a shelf with some effort. His right shoulder now bruised and his bad arm beginning to burn again, he slips under another hatchet strike and side steps to the left. The shelving crumbles when hit with the blade, but it gets stuck in the thick wood. Dag takes the chance to slam his large shield into Ødelagte, knocking him over and nearly ripping the hatchet out of his hands before his own force yanks it free from the furniture. It collapses, blocking the doorway, and preventing Beowulf from getting into this room.
Dag looks down at the attacker and shouts, “You think I have fallen to weakness because we disagree in the future of mankind? You wish for tyranny of our people, I say we deserve liberation from our oppressors! You are the one who is weak!” He brings down his sword, hoping to end this here, but Ødelagte manages to his shield and stop the blow. He scurries back and steals a second to stand back up before lunging back at Dagvald. His swing is met by Dag’s sword, and he attempts to overpower him and force Dag to drop the weapon. Beowulf barks, enraged, and begins clawing at the obstacle in his way, unable to jump over due to the low doorway.
The champion twists his wrist and shoves his arm forward, gaining the upper hand, but before his blade can get too close to the skin, the butcher throws up his shield, seriously damaging the weak area below Dag’s hand and forcing him to pull back. Ødelagte throws a kick and nails Dag’s ankle, almost topping him over, then lunges forward with a shield thrust and forces Dag to a knee. Sensing victory, he raises his hatchet in the air, ready to finish this failed experiment after so many years of work.
Dag realizes his precarious position and throws his shield over his head, luring the axe wielder into thinking Dag can no longer strategize, and as he brings it down for the crippling blow, Dag whips his foot straight into Ødelagte’s groin. It clearly meets a steel cup, sending unpleasant shockwaves through both Dag’s booted foot and the organs of the man about to butcher him. He is forced to back off and take deep breaths, allowing Dag to stand back up to face his would-be murderer.
“Either you give this up now, or you shall face the same fate as those I’ve finished so many times before!” In response, the ruthless skinhead jumps forward, shield in the air, hoping to deal a brutal blunt-force strike. In mid air, however, as Dag prepares to steady himself against this projectile, Beowulf finally breaks free from his pen and jumps after Ødelagte, catching his leg and weighing down his flight path. He hits the ground hard, unsteady, on one foot, trying to shake off the hound. He turns his waist and swings his axe at the dog.
Dagvald shouts “Beowulf, heel!” His hound scarcely notices but does turn his eyes towards his master, and sees the object falling toward him as Dag jumps to stop it. He lets go and turns away, but the blade still connects, slicing open his lower front leg. Furious yelps fill the air as Dag, enraged, nails his attacker with his shield, then follows up with a blood-spilling glancing blow to the hip. “You will pay for your crimes, foul betrayer of the gods!” As Beowulf scurries away and his kidney is nearly punctured, Ødelagte goes for one more strike to swing things back in his favor.
His hatchet catches Dag unprepared in the thigh, spilling blood of his own, but not going deep enough to stun him through the insane concentration of adrenaline. Dag stumbles but steadies himself by leaning in and driving the axeman to the ground with his shield. As the opponent falls, he sees the back door, hanging wide open. Through it, lies his salvation. There is still hope to turn this fight around. This attack must not fail now.
He feels the warmth of his own blood mixed with Dag’s pool beneath him on the dusty ground and cake it against his legs. The defender of the land leans crashes on top of him, shield between them, and prepares a fatal blow. “I do not fully understand why you have sought your death tonight, but if this is your wish, then I shall grant it! May the gods have mercy on your soul!” As the blade is thrust downwards towards his forehead, Ødelagte wrenches his own hand free and japs Dag in the side with the axe, twice, before Dag is forced to slide off and miss his killing blow.
Spluttering blood, he retorts, “Daggy boy, the gods smile upon me. It is you who they shall banish from Valhalla once I finish your pathetic excuse for an ideology! You are the cancer upon the future of our people, and I will not see them fall to your distorted truth!” He shoves Dag back down as he tries to get up and, though he can scarcely lift the weight of the shield, he manages to climb over Dag and turn the tide of battle back in his favor. With a short strike of his shield, he turns Dag’s face blue and purple, but his shield meets metal the second time he attempts this.
Reaching for the sword knocked out of his hand, Dag just barely grabs it, and brandishes it as a deterrent against his now mortal enemy. The feeling of his own blood drying against his body enrages him, and he gathers all his energy to sit up and push back against Ødelagte. He wasn’t expecting this, and the force throws him onto his own back. Dag drives his sword into a weak spot in his opponent’s shield, hoping to meet flesh, but only finding concrete ground. He wrenches the shield out of Ødie’s hands with this leverage, but knows he has no time to rip his sword free. Instead, he tossed them aside, and blocks a vicious axe strike his his own shield.
Once, twice, thrice he slams his metal disk into the exposed and unprotected head of his foe. An axe blade feebly slices his torso, but he knows he must not waver in his blows. After a sixth, he ignores good judgement and peers down at the damage he’s done. The man he once fought beside against a common enemy has now been beaten into submission, disarmed of his weapons after a war against his own brother folk. The axe has fallen from his weak hands, and the armor is shattered in several places.
“I tried to gain hegemony over our destiny, Dagvald, but it appears I have no such mandate.” Ødelagte coughs blood up from his failing lungs. “You are the future, for better or worse. Listen to me, if I have earned such respect after our battle. You must join the Kalmar Front, and fight for our people like no one has before. Now, send me, child of Odin, to be judged at the gates of Valhalla.” His voice trails off from the concussions and internal bleeding. Dag grabs the axe, and drives it down into the skull of the fallen warrior. Another piece of his past, gone. Before he can achieve his future legacy, he must tie up one last loose end, whether he wishes it or not.
Chapter Two
CLINK…THUD… CLINK… THUD….
Dagvald’s shovel rhythmically pierces the cold, hard dirt ground, and deposits its load carelessly in the pile next to the body of Ødelagte. The fallen warrior has sat, semi-buried by leaves and ground cover, overnight after the wholly exhausting combat between him and his former close friend. Ideology ripped them apart, and passion for the cause ensured this fight would be to the death. It has decided nothing less than the future of their people.
The fire crackles in the background, providing white noise on top of the predictable sounds emanating from the burial process. The darkness of night cowers behind the orange flames, and creates the backdrop for this honorable ritual. Dag knows his opponent deserves an honorable resting place which will facilitate his entry into Valhalla. From the now abandoned 4x4 sitting in his yard, the blonde collected what trinkets, money and personal items he could find to be buried with their owner and carried into the afterlife. A far cry from the treasure hoards of their ancestors, it will have to do.
He sticks the spade head in the ground and leans back on his tool, sighing deeply after the heavy work. Before him lies the body of an old friend, slain both by his own hand and the decisions of the dead. He prepares himself to dump the body in the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots something very unexpected. The corpse of the raven slaughtered by Ødelagte’s axe lies upturned. Dried blood surrounds the writhing throngs of maggots in the massive wound in its stomach. Its talons are curled together, eyes bulged out and mouth agape.
His stomach reacts harshly to this abhorrent site, causing him great distress mentally as well. The imagery… he cannot submit to the thought. Even as he tries to look away, his eyes only turn towards the fire, and he remembers all too well once again. Everything floods his mind at once. The trauma of murdering a man, the physical damage to his brain from just a week ago, the sight of the symbolic raven wasting away, the fire reminding him of his failure from so long ago all strike at once. He is crippled by their power. He drops to his knees as the smell of rotting flesh intoxicates his mind.
In the smoke, it happens again. At first, it is just black. An empty void swims up through the flames and blooms into a beautiful flower, before closing again and swirling through the gaseous death like serpents chasing their tails. Then they coalesce into a single amorphous entity yet again. The empty shape is both completely alien yet instantly recognizable to him. It never actually appears in the fire, or in his hallucinations, yet he immediately imposes the image of the raven haired woman into the empty abyss. Isabella is calling to him, enticing him to join her in the fires of hell once again, one last time. She dances, caresses her immaculate body, twirls her traditional dress, and lures him to join his beloved after so, so long.
He takes a step. She smiles at him, but does not make direct eye contact. Her hazel eyes, deep as brandy wine, are fixed seemingly on one single spot on the ground. She stares at the base of the fire, but implores her lover to come and hold her with her body and facial expressions. Her movements are irresistable. Dag takes a couple more steps towards the illusion he doesn’t even see. She throws her dress in the air, fluttering, suspended, before falling back down with the crackling embers and ashes. Dag stands just meters from the flames. His eyes are fixed on his dearest Isabella.
He lifts his right foot yet again, coming ever closer to the subconscious focus of the last decade of his life. He eyes are ever so lightly watering from the sight of his woman. His body has lost the intense aches its accumulated from two brutal fights in a short period of time. His brain can no longer think about anything but Isabella. She draws him in closer, yet still, has fluttered her eyes to meet his.
Dag’s foot reaches the climax of the arch as he steps forward. It lowers itself slowly down, corresponding to the trance he is in. It goes lower. Perhaps lower than the last steps. It continues dropping. Dag’s head does not look down. His eyes stay stuck on her lowered head. One second, his beloved is gazing mistily at the base of the fire, torso so slightly hunched down to accommodate this position. Now, in less than the concept of time which describes an instant, the head of the beautiful woman snaps in an inhuman and revolting manner to gaze directly at the man who killed the love.
Her face is pale. Black makeup runs down her cheeks and chin. The eyes… those glassy eyes… The contortion of the neck and body… they wake up Dag from his hypnosis, as he realizes his leg is carrying his body into the very burial pit he dug for Ødelagte. His hand catches him from completely falling six feet under, his upper chest landing partially on the other side of the chasm. As his leg dangles, he realizes his face is inches away from the bloated corpse of his dead foe, and he vomits.
The pain and upheaval of his abdomen force him to lose his grip, and he collapses into the very grave he dug. In the distance, a raven shrieks.